“God be with you—with us all,” Jasper says. “Knife.”

I hand him the hunting knife, handle first, then I concentrate on the Major’s face, so I don’t have to see what else is going on. I’ve butchered deer, sure, but the Major is a man, and alive.

I wince at the sound of the blade biting into flesh. The Major clamps down on the bit and grunts. His shoulders curl, and he starts to rise up.

“Hold him!” Jasper snaps.

I press his shoulders back down until he stills.

“Saw,” Jasper says, and puts the handle of the bloody knife in his mouth, between his teeth. I hand him the hacksaw. The scrape of metal on bone makes the hair on my neck stand on end.

The Major’s nostrils flare as he pants through his nose. Tears leak from the corners of squeezed-shut eyes. “You’re doing fine,” I tell him, though I have no idea if it’s true.

The sawing goes on and on, and bone dust fills the wagon, making the air smell like a wet dog. The Major shakes his head back and forth. He cries through the bit, jerking his bad leg.

Jasper spits out the knife. “Hold it down,” he says. “Hold it down so I can finish!”

I grab the Major’s thigh with both hands and press hard. Jasper goes at it again with the saw. I turn my head away as a strange squealing leaks from the Major’s lungs. Jasper picks up the knife to make a few last cuts, but I refuse to watch. With a heavy thump, the leg falls off the box and onto the bed.

“Needle,” he says. I hold the leg down with one hand, even though the Major isn’t kicking anymore, and grab the needle. It’s already threaded with gut. “Be ready to cut the thread when I tell you.”

I pick up the shears and wait while he sews. The tiny wagon smells of fresh blood now, which is a vast improvement on bone dust and sour flesh. The Major is as still as death. I peer close and am relieved to see his chest rise with a breath.

“Cut,” Jasper says.

I snip where he indicates.

“Towels.”

I hand him the clean towels, which he packs at the base of the Major’s stump. He wipes his hand on the last clean towel, and he pulls the bit from the Major’s mouth and checks his pulse.

“Well, he’s alive for now,” Jasper says. “You did good work.”

“Thanks.” I hardly did anything. Just held the man down and tried not to be sick.

We climb from the wagon to find Henry offering another pot of clean water. Tom stands beside him with a stopwatch. “Five minutes, twenty-seven seconds,” he says. “Nowhere near Liston’s record.”

Henry’s smile is squeamish. “But not bad for your first time.”